


The White Wizard's Treachery

by Esteliel



Series: The Tale of Eluivor and Vereyar [4]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings Online
Genre: Gen, Isengard Fic, LOTRO, MMORPG
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:08:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After weeks of imprisonment beneath Isengard, Eluivor is brought before Saruman at last, who is desiring news about Gandalf and the ring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The White Wizard's Treachery

**Author's Note:**

> Eluivor is mine. A few of Saruman's lines are taken from the in-game quest text and so belong to Turbine.

The weight of the dagger is a reassuring presence against his chest. The steel is crude. It has no name, no history to go with it. But for once, Eluivor does not miss the lost sword of his grandfather. Steel is steel, and he would not have been able to hide a sword.

He remembers Vereyar's words when they reach the door that leads to the surface. Almost he is excited – how long has it been since he has seen the sky? But there is no sign of a struggle when they go through. The floor is dusty, no blood has been spilled. His own fingers twitch, but there are orcs on the other side of the door, and he is tired, so tired, every limb in his body aching from the long abuse. Can he take four of them, on his own, with this weary body and a crude dagger against their armour and weapons?

For a moment he stands still, awed by the light of the stars that shine down on him from behind the clouds and the dark smoke of the forges of Isengard. It is enough to forget all pain, all weariness – but then a cruel, heavy hand clenches around his shoulder and drags him forward, and he sees how far it is to the walls that encircle the wizard's home like a ring. He wants to weep when a warg rider prowls past him with a sneer, patrolling the large, open space. No, he will never make it to a gate, and even if he did – what if it is closed? What if there are more guards, more wargs?

And yet, might it not be better to die trying, to die beneath the light of the stars instead of succumbing to a slow, painful death doing the bidding of orcs, unless he is a thrall in truth who cannot even remember his own name?

But the orc keeps his grip on his shoulder, and he is pushed forward, well-guarded until they reach the tower of darkness where the White Wizard resides. Now, at last, he is left alone – and what harm can he do, he, a single prisoner wandering the wizard's home, with only his bare hands against the Istari's might?

But that is where they are wrong, he remembers, almost too late. He has his dagger. He straightens a little as he walks through the empty hallways of the tower, ignoring the soft carpets and walls of books that line alcoves and rooms he passes. No. No, there might be purpose for him still. He promised Vereyar to survive, to put an end to the orcs' cruelty after their escape. But if that does not happen – will it not be better to put an end to this evil once and for all by killing the wizard? He only has a dagger against all of the Istari's power and cunning – but a dagger is all it takes, and certainly the White Wizard would never suspect a broken prisoner to stand before him armed.

“Come closer, Eluivor.”

He freezes, unable to tear his eyes away from where the White Wizard has appeared before him at last. It is a chamber like all the others – old books line the walls, tapestries cover dark stone, soft carpet beneath his weary feet makes him long to lie down and sleep. There is nothing about the room that seems frightening or imposing, and that is not needed. The wizard's presence fills it until Eluivor sways at the attempt to follow the interchange of colours of the Istari's robes. After the weeks of dirt and grey stone and bruised, scabbed flesh, it overwhelms all of his senses until all thoughts are gone and his awareness seems to pulsate, thoughts dimming and sharpening in time with the power that pulsates from the wizard's bright figure.

“Your own endeavour has ended in defeat, Eluivor. You have ridden a long road, but have accomplished nothing. And what has it cost you? Your home. Your family. Abandon this foolish journey, Eluivor. Join me in my pursuit.”

There is a strange resonance to the wizard's words, as if he hears them with more senses than just his hearing. They penetrate his body easily, like rays of merciless light penetrating a hidden, shadowed corner all of a sudden, and all thought of his dagger is forgotten as he wants to cringe away from it.

“It is my King who shall judge my deeds,” he replies, and his voice is firm, although his heart is filled with fear.

“Your King who took away your title? Proud, brave Thranduil who hides in his forest while slowly, all the world around him succumbs to my strength – is that the man you want to serve, Eluivor? He will never even know if you die here as my servant. What good is your pride? To your King, you will be just once more disappointment, another warrior who deserted and never returned. And your family... They will think that you ran away in shame, and that you died in shame. Your name will be spoken in derision, and if you are remembered at all, it will be for the shame and fall of your House.”

Helplessly, he shakes his head as if to get rid of the insidious words that fill his mind with such force, replacing all thoughts of hope and resolve. “My family will not doubt me,” he says quietly, clinging to that last thought of holding Gwennael in his arms, of knowing that her strength was as great as his own.

“Will they? Your King looks down on you for the shame of your House. Your Prince abandoned you. You are no Lord, Eluivor. You are not even good enough for your Prince to bear having you by his side as a servant. Your companions mock you to your face. The elf you travel with – Vereyar. What friend would treat you like he does? He insults you. He laughs at you. He treats you as little more than a child – you, the Lord of the House of the Pine, expected to follow his every order when in truth, he should be your servant. He should be grateful to have the company of a Lord of the Greenwood. He should show you the respect you deserve.”

He tenses at the mention of his king. Dimly, he still remembers Vereyar's words. _Do not listen._ But it is too late, and the wizard's words are in his head, twisting and squirming as he helplessly battles against them. Like spider web, his words stick and cling and spread, until it feels as if every thought he can hold is tainted by their sweet poison.

“I am no Lord,” he says at last, and as always, there is a last, hidden resort of pride at how humbly he bears the shame of his House. That pride stretches and expands, to fill him with warmth, and then the heat of almost rage as for a moment he thinks of how Vereyar should respect him, of how he is Vereyar's equal in truth, nay, his better–

And then he remembers the icy cold of Caradhras, and the heat the wizard's words have fanned into a fire is smothered as he thinks of how he knelt in the snow, shivering and weak and truly aware of the folly of his pride for the first time. He remembers the rage in Vereyar's eyes, he remembers the sting of the slap and the shame of his harsh words, and most of all, he remembers the heat of his body that kept them alive, the strong hand clasped around his wrist that refused to let go when he had given himself up to death, the way Vereyar had without hesitation endangered his own life to save that of a stranger, and a fool at that.

No, they are not equals, and it is important to remember that. What good is his pride in his name when Vereyar has shown a thousand times more honour than his own father? Even the wizard's words cannot taint his memories of the true nobility, the honour and the goodness that guide Vereyar's actions. What is the name of his House compared to a man so devoted to his duty he would offer his own soul to a task that is the way of doom, and yet a way even nobler for that certainty?

“I am no Lord,” he repeats, his voice calm. “My King judges me by my deeds, and those shall always be honourable.”

“Tell me everything you know about the Ring. Gandalf knew something of it, and you knew Gandalf. I know the Ring was in the hands of a halfling. Where is it now? I can be very generous to those who serve me. I can give you anything you seek.”

And there at last, the wizard gives up all pretence, and Eluivor tries to hold on to his memories of his Prince, noble and good and full of kindness – kind enough to reach out a hand of friendship to one whose House had fallen to shame. Noble enough to bear the burden of a grave task. How can he betray his Prince?

“Nothing you can offer will change the fact that I am a warrior of the Greenwood. Noble or not, my life belongs to my King regardless, and there is honour enough in that for me.” His voice only trembles a little as he pronounces this in the face of the wizard's wrath, the light that emanates from him harsh and painful in his eyes. “You can offer me nothing I desire that my King has not already given me freely.”

Now Saruman's voice is violent like lightning, burning paths of painful power into his mind until Eluivor falls to his knees, gripping his head with both hands as the wizard’s words fill him until there is nothing left but bright cruelty and bitterest despair.

“Then we shall see how much honour you find in crawling, in weeping as you plead for mercy, in begging for a scrap of the food even my orcs refuse. We will see how much your promises to your king mean to you then, and we will see how grateful you are for a companion who has betrayed you and lied to you, a companion who cares so much about selfish revenge that he brought this down upon you. And when you lie awake at night, weeping and praying for a release that will never come, remember my offer, Eluivor. Your honour and your name restored by your King. A rise to higher power than your family has ever held before. And why should a daughter of yours not be pledged to your Prince in marriage at last? All of that is possible, Eluivor. Think of that future when you beg and weep. Think of how easy it would be to leave all of that behind.”

Eluivor's hands are clasped over his ears in despair, but there is no way to escape the wizard's power. The images are burned into his mind – sitting at the King's table. A lovely, graceful maid with Gwennael's silver hair clasping his Prince's hand. His bedchamber filled by moonlight, the comfort of soft pillows and Gwennael's head resting on his chest.

And then the wizard is gone, and the pain in his head lessens, but the despair remains. He presses his face into the carpet to block out the images, but they remain, bright and powerful and tempting against the bleak dust and blood of his imprisonment, and the weight of the hidden dagger against his chest now only brings shame instead of hope.


End file.
